


Mutiny

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also hatred, Alternate Universe - Pirate, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Couple of sword fights, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Lots of Pirates, M/M, Pirate Sherlock, Pirate!lock, Rebellion, Romance, Sailor John, Violence, gladstone - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The story itself told of a narcissistic captain, with a fierce attitude and a hunger for trouble. John had idolised him, yearning to hear more of the fictional pirate with the sly mind and cunning wit. He had longed to live a pirate's life; to sail the seven seas, raiding a pillaging villages, swimming in gold rather than water. Only, his opinion on pirates changed somewhat after news came to him and his family that his father wouldn't be coming home.”</p><p>Captain aboard HMS Edward, John Watson was able to develop a hatred of pirates at a young age. He loathed and detested them, and he was absolutely certain that he’d never grow to call one a friend. But sometimes a person needs to place trust in a person they would never normally trust, because sometimes it’s that person who you didn’t know that you needed.</p><p>A tale of pirates, espionage, mutiny, and somewhat unlikely friendships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was never anything more welcoming than the tangy salt scent that rolled in with the sea to John Watson.

Ever since he'd been a young boy he'd relished in the ideals that the sea brought with it. He fascinated over the fish that washed up onto the local shores, and caused his mother many a fright when he ventured too far out into the deep. She often warned that the sea wasn't safe, and that it held many dangers that he wouldn't be unable to handle. John had always scoffed at the unintentional insults, although he always heeded his mothers' warning and retracted back to the shingle shore each time.

When those moments had occurred, John took his mothers advice, but secretly he wouldn't believe it. There were no dangers in the sparkling blue waters to him, save for the occasional bad tempered crab.

He respected the ocean, and it respected him back. Or so he had thought. It was that warped thought that had initially given him the idea to join The Royal Navy in the first place, and that was where he remained to this day. Still taking his mothers warning, but just not quite believing it.

Now, however, he knew what his mother had meant. The deep, dark ocean was not so inviting as it had once been. He was sodden in his breeches as tall, powerful waves flung themselves over the strong wooden side of HMS Edward, spilling across the surface of the deck. The freezing cold water sloshed and rolled along the boat, cascading down into the holds, picking up barrels idly and dragging them along with it.

John leaned over the side of the almighty boat and squinted into the distance. Through gaps in the waves, he caught sight of a glowing orange orb in the distance, and cried out as he realised he was looking at the ship that had been accompanying them on their voyage.

Hurriedly, he made his way towards the steps that led to the lower decks; a desperate attempt to inform someone of his theory that the storm bore more troubles for the already treacherous journey. For the current fire leaping about their companion ship gave every indication that a battle was about to be conducted.

John's stomach rolled over as HMS Edward threatened to do the same. He patted one of the strong wooden beams as he used it for support.

“We can do this.” He reassured the mighty ship, but he couldn't hide the doubtfulness in his voice. The weather was vile, and the ship was threatening to turn over at any moment. If there was indeed another party out there who decided to act as a hostile force towards them, they wouldn't stand a chance.

The ship lurched dangerously, and John sucked in his breath, ready for more water to infiltrate the boat and send him and his crew to a watery grave.

“Archie!” John barked at the small boy who was huddled into a tight ball in between several crates. The boy looked up, whimpering slightly.

“Captain Watson!” He exclaimed, standing up quickly. “I didn't have any duties, and then the storm struck and so I- I wasn't hiding, Captain. Not at all.” John smiled at Archie's hurry to try and worm his way out of the situation. He couldn't blame him for it.

“You'll be much safer in one of the lower decks, Archie. See to it that you find yourself there.” Archie nodded quickly and began scarpering down a rickety ladder. John shook his head, chuckling at the boy's haste.

Archie had snuck himself onto the boat when they departed from Plymouth. A stowaway. Under normal circumstances, any halfway decent Captain who performed his duties proficiently would have seen to it that the stowaway would be made good use of, such as cleaning the men's boots. The boy had immediately offered to help, to try and make sure that he wasn't completely in the way. John had asked him what his name was.

“Archie, Captain.” He'd replied timidly.

“Can you read, Archie?” He'd asked.

“No, Captain.”

“Can you write?”

“No, Captain.”

“You're completely illiterate?”

“Yes, Captain.” 

John had then straightened up. Archie was flinching, already presuming his fate.

“Well, Archie. I'm not happy that you've come onto this ship. The Royal Navy is no place for a child, especially with the current climate,” Archie gulped “but, you may be useful. We'll do our best to see that no harm comes to you, but I cannot promise it. The next English dock that we find ourselves in will be the same dock that we leave you behind. During that time however I will assign someone to teach you how to read and write.” Archie had beamed at the Captain's promise.

Most said that John wasn't true captain material. The fact that he'd been so lenient with Archie proved to many to be the only evidence they needed in the matter. To others however, John was an extremely well thought of captain indeed. 

He'd received many an injury, including being shot in the shoulder. It had been an arduous recovery, and John had frequently contemplated taking another gun and sticking a bullet in his brain. The thought had grown into a powerful desire when the wound became infected, as there were talks of an amputation. But he'd held through, and continued with his career in the Royal Navy, following in the respected footsteps of his father, Captain Hamish Watson.

As he watched Archie disappear, the boat swayed uneasily. John steadied himself, clinging onto another beam. Water was pouring through the like a power hungry waterfall from the top deck. He feared for the men below, praying that they'd listened his commands and secured the hatch doors. That should, at any rate, prevent the water from penetrating the lower decks.

As he continued scouring the lower holds of the ship in search of stragglers, a dog's bark overpowered the roars of thunder, and John cast his gaze towards the farthest corner of the room, where his sopping wet oaf of a dog was perched a top a not-yet-moving crate and wagging his tail wildly, tongue flailing as it hung out of his mouth. 

“Gladstone!” John exclaimed, striding through the sea water and towards his dopey dog. “You fool, why aren't you in the hold with the other men?” 

Gladstone's tail increased it's wagging as John picked up the dog and held it's face level with his own. 

That was another area that caused concern amongst the men. What sort of captain would bring his sister's dog onboard a ship? John had good reason though, he thought. Gladstone was one of the loyalist dogs that John had ever had the pleasure of knowing. He could sense danger a mile off, and was the most dependable when it came to another person. If Gladstone didn't like them; John didn't like them. He trusted the dog's instincts above his own, and couldn't bare the thought of leaving him behind in England with his sister, who was sure to not look after him properly. Besides, Gladstone was an excellent swimmer.

He tucked Gladstone under his arm and continued navigating himself about the ship. Before long, he found himself in his own captain's quarters and crouching down to pick up the sheets of parchments floating gently in the water. They hadn't been prepared for the storm, not at all. He partially blamed himself for that, but even more so the one's who had sent them out to sea in the first place.

When John was a child (and incidentally just after he'd been told off by his mother for going too far out into the sea again), he stumbled across an old book in the town's library where he lived. At that age, John couldn't read, but he borrowed the book from the library and returned home with it cradled under his arm for his mother to read to him.

There were few pictures, but the ones that existed were beautifully sketched depictions of pirate ships, with strong, billowing flags bearing skulls and crossbones. The sea was sketched in elegant waves that tumbled dramatically over the sandy beaches, and the islands portrayed supported astounding palm trees baring all manner of fruits that John had longed to sink his teeth into. 

The story itself told of a narcissistic captain, with a fierce attitude and a hunger for trouble. John had idolised him, yearning to hear more of the fictional pirate with the sly mind and cunning wit. He had longed to live a pirate's life; to sail the seven seas, raiding a pillaging villages, swimming in gold rather than water. Only, his opinion on pirates changed somewhat after news came to him and his family that his father wouldn't be coming home. 

To be fatherless at John's age was not uncommon, especially when said father was a member of The Royal Navy and was constantly getting involved in various fights. But from that moment John had grown to despise the pirate breed, including the infamous pirate so glamorously portrayed within the pages of his favourite book. He loathed anyone who declared themselves a pirate, and was determined to never idolise one ever again. Although, secretly, he still kept a copy of the book. A momentum and reminder whenever he felt pity for some bedraggled pirate slumped across a port bar. 

Yet, despite his hatred towards the scum of the sea (as he so dubbed them), he still loved the sea. After all, it wasn't the sea that had killed his father. It was the sword that had pierced his abdomen that was the one to blame for that. So, he joined The Royal Navy. Still getting to explore new worlds, and venture to far off places that the boy version of him could only dream of setting foot on. But being a part of The Royal Navy had it's down-sides.

For one, there were rules to be abided by. Usually, John was perfectly capable of following orders, but more often than not he wouldn't quite agree. One would have thought that being captain would at least grant a person the ability to make their own decisions, and indeed it did, but John still had orders to follow. 

The orders he was currently following had been set by a particularly well thought of member of British citizenry, and John had had to question whether the amicable request was actually a duty worthy of their time. John had queried it, but was soon silenced and told to carry it out anyway. John's stomach churned at the thought of an apparently sturdy government being twisted by a man with a pocket full of coins. Unfortunately, the men who made the rules weren't made so guilty of in their conscious when it came to accepting handsome fees in return for various workings being done. So John had to go through with it regardless. 

His current journey (if the ship didn't sink beforehand), would take him to the magnificent shores of Pharaoh, named after the adventurer who had discovered and founded it, and onto the beauteous Bartholomew's Bay. It was a place John had visited quite often on his various adventures, and he had an acquired taste for the food there. Though this time he suspected that he wouldn't be granted the curtesy of dining on the delicacies that Pharaoh had to offer. For this time his stay wouldn't be so luxurious. He'd have to encounter pirates, again. 

John pricked his ears up, and heard only the panting of Gladstone as he settled himself down on John's bed. The water had stopped forming waves in his room, and John sighed at the idea of the storm being at last over. The weather at sea was one temperamental bugger to say the least. 

Hoping for the best, John decided to resurface to the top deck, leaving Gladstone in his room and cursing himself for allowing the dog to settle on his bed. It would reek of wet dog for at least a week. 

John found himself standing on the top deck, breathing in a sigh of relief at the view that greeted him. The blackness of the storm clouds were quickly dispersing, being replaced instead by and impenetrable grey. John chuckled at how capricious the weather at sea was. As the ocean calmed, so did John's nerves.

He sighed happily as he leant up against the base of the thickest mast, allowing the sweet saltiness of the sea to flood his senses and shutting his eyes, just to ensure that his senses were devoted to smelling the scent as much as was possible for his weak human nose. Sometimes he envied Gladstone's smelling capabilities. 

As more men resurfaced, a few climbing down precariously from the rigging after their observations of the battle being undergone by the other ship. John resented the fact that they couldn't help the neighbouring boat, but during the storm the sea had been too difficult to navigate, and nothing good would have come from compromising their own lives for the sake of a hundred or so more. Besides, the mission would never be carried out if they were sitting at the bottom of the ocean. 

“What news of the other ship?” Stamford asked one of the men eagerly.

“Sunk.” He gruffed, bowing his head, and the rest followed suit. Mourning their fallen comrades. “It was pirates. Impressive manoeuvring, mind. The captain knew what he was doing, certainly.” He turned to face John. “Captain, I think there are more dangers on the way. From what I could tell, it wasn't a random attack.”

John nodded. He'd expected as much. 

“There's nothing to be done, I'm afraid.” John told his men solemnly. “We can only continue our course and pray that we don't meet the same fate. Until we reach Pharaoh though, keep an eye on the horizon, and sound the alarm the moment a hostile ship is spotted. We should reach Bartholomew's Bay in a couple of days.” The men nodded, before scuttling off to their original duties. However, John caught Stamford's shoulder as he turned to leave. 

“We're not going to reach Pharaoh safely, not with pirates trailing us,” John muttered gravely. 

Stamford turned around to face him. “What do you propose we do, Captain?” 

John shook his head, loosening his grip on Stamford's shoulder and letting his arm fall limply at his side. “We'd do well to avoid them, but we must be keen-eyed once on land. This pirate business is to do with the mission, and I suspect the ship that took down one of our own was commanded by the pirate we seek...” John's voice trailed away. He was growing nauseated at the prospect of having a pirate aboard his ship. He feared that rage for the death of his father would overpower him, and he'd end up shoving the poor bloke overboard before they'd even returned to English soil. 

“It'll be fine,” Stamford assured him. John smiled meekly. “He just has a big reputation. I suspect Captain Holmes will be nothing more than a thieving wretch of a man, what else would this Magnussen fellow want with him? He'll come easily enough. Especially when he realises why he is wanted back on land. No man can run away from their death.” 

“Why would anyone return to a place knowing that it's where they'll die?” John quizzed skeptically. “I'd avoid it as much as possible. Besides, we don't even know what has been done by this Captain Holmes to warrant such a fate. He may even be wanted back in Britain for a good thing. Stop putting thoughts into my head, Stamford. We'll see what kind of man he is when he's on this ship and not a moment sooner. Speculation will not do.” 

Stamford chuckled. “Since when have you grown to be fond of pirates?”

“I'm not.” John shot back bitterly. “It doesn't do well to judge a person based on preconceived thoughts, is all.”

Quietly, John had his own reasons for not judging the man too quickly. Although he'd never voice them out loud. Magnussen (the rich-pocketed filth who'd sent them on the mission in the first place), was a man who made John's stomach knot. He had no trust of the man, and the readiness at which the government had ordered John on this mission at one single measly request made John lose faith in the people he was working for. It just didn't seem right. And while he was certain that Holmes was well justified in receiving an inevitable death; John couldn't help but worry over whether this was indeed a man getting what he deserved for committing a crime he didn't know about, or whether their was something more sinister at play. He favoured the latter.

“Very wise.” Stamford agreed. “Where's Gladstone?” He asked, changing the subject with a lighter tone. John grinned.

“I found him perched on one of the barrels, wagging his tail too, the stupid mutt.” He laughed. 

“Ah, well. That's Gladstone for you, I suppose. I better go and see to the men then. Archie should be around here somewhere...” As Stamford departed, John called after him.

“Don't mention about Holmes to any of the men.” John didn't hear Stamford's reply, but he knew that his comment was heard. 

_-_

Over the next few days, nothing more was mentioned of pirates, or the notorious Captain Holmes, for that matter. There was no further sightings of pirate ships either, and John took comfort in the fact that they hadn't encountered any more hitches. Each man aboard HMS Edward had their heart set solely on reaching Pharaoh, and when the distant land was spotted many cried out in joy. 

John however did not share their appreciation of reaching their destination. This was Holmes' known location, and whether or not Stamford thought the man would come quietly, John knew that there was never an easy battle to be had. No man would go into captivity willingly. Especially not one who deemed himself a pirate.

They docked in the port, before climbing off of the boat and facing the blistering heat that Pharaoh had to offer them. Gladstone was trotting happily along the streets with him, tail still wagging.

As they descended into the heart of the town, they were bombarded with fruit sellers shoving shiny, round, bright fruits under their noses. John promised himself he would pick up a few of his favourites later, but the man beckoning for him to buy a particularly juicy looking fruit had been too persistent. John had then found himself carrying a wicker basket full of various types of fruit that he had yet to learn the name of, and his pocket was considerably lighter than when he'd arrived. Soon enough, he found himself feeling more like he was on holiday, rather than on a mission where he'd have to kidnap a man. It felt wrong to taint such a beautiful trip. 

The streets themselves bore magnificent architecture, providing quite a contrast to the streets of London that John knew so well. The square buildings were all painted white, and pale pink blossom bloomed on the trees that lined the steep streets that wound around corners so graciously it seemed that it was the progression of a river's course, rather than paving slabs lain down by man. To John, the place was quite an oddity for pirates to seek solitude. It was just too peaceful.

As he turned his head and cast a glance back down the hill he'd been climbing, he caught sight of the sea glistening in the sunlight, and with it HMS Edward was resting peacefully. Until a darting figure caught John's eye, and he squinted in order to get a better look. 

There were people climbing on board HMS Edward. 

John scowled, unable to see who they were. “Gladstone.” John ordered. The dog turned his head sharply upwards to look at John, he then trailed John's line of sight and began growling at the boat. John swore loudly before being a sprinting descent back towards the boat, but a mislaid brick caused him to trip, and his arms prevented his face from smashing onto the cobblestone street as his fruit spilled from the basket. 

“Bugger it,” John swore to himself, watching the fruit roll away and deciding to leave them in desperation to get the scum from his boat. He was just about to start running again, but a cool voice prevented him from moving.

“There's no point,” for a moment, John could have sworn he was still in England. The rich voice reminded him of posh clubs that he'd never been able to enter until he'd achieved his Captain title.

“I'll be damned if I do nothing. That's my ship they're raiding.” John scorned, gesturing towards the boat. Various crates were being tossed overboard. 

“It's not your ship,” the voice replied scathingly “it's The Royal Navy's ship. You're just the one in charge of it today.” 

John turned around, trying to find the source of the voice. He knew that the man was standing in a tight alleyway in between two tall buildings, but he couldn't see the man owing to the shadows. 

“I'm done with your mockery. Now excuse me, I have a ship to salvage.” John gritted his teeth as he carried on walking, dreading dealing with the the ruining his beloved boat.

“My men shan't leave anything to be salvaged.” John wheeled around to find Captain Holmes smirking from beneath a sun-bleached black leather hat, with tufts of darker hair poking out from beneath it. He was taller than John, and was using it as an advantage to belittle him. Tossing one of John's pieces of fruit into the air with one hand while his other was rested on his hip. His piercing blue eyes were trailing the fruits journey into the sky and then back into his hand with fascinated interest. 

“Your men?” John blinked. Holmes met his gaze and his smirk turned into a grin. It seemed genuine. 

He shoved the fruit into his pocket, put one leg out in front of him and bent it slightly. He then crooked his elbow before swinging it across his body. “Arr,” he said, gleefully. 

Through all the pirates John had ever had the pleasure of knowing, they'd all supported the accent of their own country. In Holmes's case, his voice has tarnished with a fine English accent. Every know and again John would stumble across some pirate beggar who supported the stereotypical pirate accent, but it was a rarity. Now however, he was witnessing Holmes pull it off spectacularly. 

“Cap'n Sherlock 'Olmes, pleasure to mek yer acquaintance.” He extended his hand, his voice rasping slightly as he extended the 'ance' in 'acquaintance'. He was grinning broadly now, apparently pleased with his impersonation. Reluctantly, John shook his hand.

“Captain John Watson, and I'm afraid I can't say the same,” He replied shortly, and Holmes's grinned dropped. He seemed disheartened. 

“That was rude. I retract my 'pleasure to make your acquaintance' statement, which I'm sure you won't mind.” Holmes scowled. John shrugged. He wasn't about to be to made to feel guilty of by some good for nothing pirate. 

John stood silent for a while. His task was to find the man, and while it had rather been the opposite way around, Holmes was still now standing in front of him, and he'd be damned if he was letting him out of his sight. Holmes cocked his eyebrow.

“Not talking? Are you annoyed at me? I tried to be nice... Usually one would act as quite hostile towards someone who was planning on kidnapping them...” John blinked. 

“How do you...?” He started, but Holmes snorted derivatively. 

“Please. You have a low opinion of me, it seems.” Holmes pulled the fruit from his pocket and began throwing it into the air again. “So go on then, what have you been told about me? It must be something awful for you to be glaring at me like that. I must find out why my head is wanted back on English soil before I make my daring escape.” 

John blinked. “I haven't heard anything about you. All I know is that you're wanted back in England, and that it's my job to make sure that that command is carried out.”

Apparently, it was know Holmes's turn to be confused.

“You know nothing at all?” 

John felt slightly self-conscious as he felt Holmes scour him with his eyes. He nodded, recomposing himself by straightening his back. “That's really very interesting.” Holmes decided after a long pause filled with silence, but was now back to smirking at John

“You know of me though, naturally.” Holmes said, he clasped his hands behind his back before circling John. John couldn't help but compare the Captain to an eagle stalking it's prey.

“Naturally,” John agreed, feeling slightly trapped as Holmes continued trotting around him. “Captain Sherlock Holmes, I presume English born, and a known pirate icon with an unprecedented reputation; undoubtedly owing to your attacks on villages and wealth of treasure.” John said firmly. As Holmes came round to face John again, John saw that the smirk was back. 

“English born is correct, and I am a pirate, yes.” He seemed finished, but at the same time he also seemed to be egging John on. John took to the bait. 

“... But?”

“But! I have no interest in attacking villages for their treasure. That's tedious and ever so stereotypical. Really, Watson, I'm disappointed in you.” 

John wanted to punch the man. A pirate could in no way be disappointed in a man of a higher rank than he, it just wasn't done. How dare this Holmes fellow express his disappointment in John. He had nothing to prove. The comment ruffled John, and Holmes saw it.

“Let's move on to you then, shall we? You're captain of HMS Edward, though you aren't respected as much as you would please from your crew... You were shot in the shoulder, in a war environment, so perhaps The Royal Navy wasn't your first option?” Holmes's eyes widened as he mouth formed an 'O'. John took a step backwards. “You wanted to be a pirate? Oh Watson! That's special! Is that where your hatred of me comes in? I can assure you, Captain Watson, it was not I who killed your father. I would very much like to discuss it with you further, however.” 

Holmes strode around John, with John tracing him cautiously. John was slightly in awe over what he'd just heard, and had to give himself a light shake in remembrance that this well-talking pirate was still, in actual fact, a pirate. Nevertheless, despite his determination not to show how impressed he was by Holmes' knowledge of him, John found the words tumbling from his mouth anyway.

“That was brilliant. How do you know all that? I confess that I was somewhat befuddled by you knowing who I am at all, knowing that I was sent here to 'kidnap' you, and I make no cover-up of the fact that my crew don't respect me as much as they ought to. You must not judge me for my bemusement that you know who I am. I often go without a second glance. I'm impressed by your knowledge of me.” John conceded. “It's nice to meet a pirate who uses words rather than jumps immediately into a brawl.” 

Holmes's eyebrow rose slowly up his forehead, and he withdrew a long silver sword from a slick leather sheath hanging from his belt. While there was no mark upon the sheath itself, it was clear to anyone that it was made by a true craftsman. The sword itself was glinting in the sun as Holmes held it above his shoulder. John's hand slowly went to his own, although he suddenly felt like his sword-fighting skills were somewhat amateur-like in comparison to Holmes. 

“Who said I do not brawl?” Holmes sneered. 

“You haven't as of yet,” John pointed out, “and we've been talking for a good while.” 

Holmes chuckled to himself. “Ah yes, 'a good while', and within that time span you've allowed me to stall you considerably, giving my own crew all the time in the world to raid your ship of any value it may hold. You're too easily tricked a man, Watson.” Holmes slid his sword back into it's sheath, pride leaking out through his obnoxious grin. Only this time, it was John's turn to smile.

“I think not,” John turned his head so that he was facing the same back-alley shadow that Holmes had been lurking in previously. “Gladstone.” 

Suddenly, a bark ripped through the air and Holmes spun around just in time to see the Portuguese water dog that was Gladstone launch himself into the air. Holmes yelped as the dog's jaws clamped across his right hand. As Holmes attempted to fight off the lightning quick dog using nothing more than his feet (the other hand was clasped around his freely bleeding hand), John threw himself feet first onto the floor and under the seething pirate in a rugby-tackle like move. Holmes crashed to the ground like a tree, while John straightened himself up, patting Gladstone's head as he did so.

“Good boy.” He commended, and Gladstone was back to wagging his tail happily. “Apparently I'm not so 'easily tricked'. Did you forget I had a dog in my company?” John withdrew his sword. The point was nestled under Holmes's chin, and the captain glowered up at him, his blood soaked hand creating red spots on the cobblestones beneath. 

“Your ship is still empty, most of your men are dead.” Holmes growled. 

“My ship bore no treasures except for a few maps. Besides, I thought you said you weren't interested in treasure? I've come here and I've done what it was my job to do. You're my prisoner, Holmes. You're coming back to England to await the fate that Lord Magnussen has sentenced you to.” 

John was feeling decidedly pleased with himself. Gladstone trotted around Holmes and took a menacing stance, baring his teeth as John returned the sword to it's sheath and tied a piece of rope around Holmes's wrists. He inspected the wound. Several sufficiently made puncture marks acted as the door way in which blood was seeping through. Gladstone had done a good job; he'd clean it up and put a bandage on it when he returned to HMS Edward.


	2. Chapter 2

“Captain Sherlock Holmes,” John said as he wrapped another loop around Holmes' already bound wrists for good measure, “I am arresting you under suspicion of treason...”

The words rolled off John's tongue with ease as he fumbled around with the rope. He'd arrested people before, and it wasn't exactly a rarity to find that it was a pirate who he was arresting. He felt a lot better when their arms were constricted, because it meant that they had less schemes to pull.

That being said, Holmes was surprisingly compliant with having his hands bound, and didn't put up a fuss either when John accidentally put pressure on one of his freely bleeding cuts.

“Treason?” Holmes queried. His eyebrow arched as John came round to face him again.

“Yes.” John said firmly. Holmes' eyes widened with his face adorning that of shock, it was almost comical. He was looking down on John, and John was doing his best to glower back up at the fellow with little succession.

“Are you sure it's treason? Definitely treason?” Holmes attempted to clarify. John took him by the elbow and began steering him back down the long cobblestone road, not paying attention to what the captain was saying whatsoever. This didn't stop Holmes however. He was desperate for the man's attention, and kept talking as a result. Questions firing off at rapid speed which caused John to grow increasingly irritated as Holmes kept blabbering on about how crucial what he had to say was. John meanwhile (having grown accustomed to pointless shoutings and squabblings of his men), was able to tune the captain's questions out without too much difficulty.

“John!”

John stopped and glared at Holmes. He was surprised to find the captive captain staring back at him through somewhat anxious eyes. Shuffling about on his feet, and darting his eyes about as though expecting someone to lunge after them, Holmes gave all the indications of being a very troubled man indeed. “That is your name isn't it? Captain John Watson?” He asked, apparently fearing he'd gotten it wrong.

“What is it, Holmes?” John asked exasperatedly, gliding over the fact that Holmes had called him by his first name.

“We can't go back to your boat.” Holmes stated. His gaze had switched from anxious and was now a sincere stare, it made John feel slightly uneasy. An odd silence settled awkwardly between them, before John had enough of the intensity and decided to break it.

“And why on Earth not?” He attempted a laugh, trying to make light of what Holmes was telling him.

He was all too aware of the schemes that people liked to pull, and it certainly wasn't unknown for a prisoner to feign danger of some sort. Once he'd known a man had sworn blindly that he was cursed, and that by forcing him onto the boat, the boat and it's crew would share the same curse. Despite the warning, John had persisted, and neither John nor the boat had become cursed.

Baring this in mind, John decided to enjoy Holmes' show before continuing to HMS Edward. He was expecting a good show, if Holmes' previous demonstration of twisting his accent was anything to go on, the bloke was a fairly good actor. John awaited the expectedly dynamic explanation with enthusiasm.

“I haven't committed treason.” Holmes muttered, as though he were ashamed by the fact. John merely blinked, surveying the captain closely.

He was deathly white, which John considered quite a feat considering the man's obvious long exposure to sunlight. John gestured towards a delicately carved bench just a few metres away from where they were stood. Holmes glanced from John towards the bench, then back to John. As if to confirm what John was suggesting. He nodded, before depositing himself rather unceremoniously onto the bench.

John sat down next to him, making sure as to keep a tight hold should he attempt to make a mad dash for freedom.

“Now why is it I'm not to return to my boat?” John asked, yearning to hear Holmes' excuse. He'd contemplated writing down all the excuses that he'd been told before now, under the fact that they'd make for some very humorous reading.

“I'm a wanted man, Watson, surely you must know this.” Holmes started. John nodded tersely, prompting Holmes to continue. “And I'm wanted for numerous things; I'm not going to divulge to you what they are however, should you arrest me for it.” John pulled a face. He could reason with that. “I have no interest in my home country, and I fled those shores a good many years ago. I have no interest in returning.”

John sighed, running the hand that wasn't holding onto Holmes through his own hair. The sun was poking through gaps in between the pink blossom that swayed lightly in the breeze, causing Holmes' face to be specked with shadow and light.

“Holmes, these aren't my orders. It's simply my job to return you, and I care not for your previous wrong-doings. We must return to HMS Edward, or I shall lose my head.”

Holmes' head dropped to face the floor. Gladstone had decided to stretch out in front of his legs, his head resting on the tips of his boots, preventing him from escaping. John smiled fondly at the dog, although there was something about Gladstone suddenly taking to Holmes that affected him somewhat.

“Come on. We can't sit here all day." John started, hoisting both himself and Holmes up at the same time. The bench creaked as their weights were removed, and Gladstone jumped up in surprise at their movement. He hadn't been acting as a prison guard at all.

"Think about it, Watson." Holmes implored. "Why would they send a fully crewed ship to retrieve one man? Don't tell me that you don't care. It's obvious that you do. So tell me, Captain, where does your hated of the government stem from?" Holmes sneered.

"Is it simply you venting your anger from your crew's ignorance of you in a different direction? Are you really that bad as a captain? Surely that's why they've given you such a trivial task as this. You're an angry man, Watson. You deserve to be listened to. Is that why you've taken to the sea? To try and earn some respect?”

John loosened his grip and wheeled around, glaring at the taller captain with his fists clenched at his sides.

"Do not question me, Holmes. Think of the position that you are in. It's not befitting to quiz your captor. I may tell you all there is for you to know on the subject of your arrest once we're back on HMS Edward, and not a moment sooner. Now be quiet or I shall personally see to it that you find yourself in the gallows themselves."

He wasn't entirely sure about where the rage had come from, but as he'd progressed through his speech his voice had diminished to no more than a whisper. Holmes was frowning, but John showed no interest in the current emotion of the obstreperous captain before him.

"Lead on then, Captain." Holmes' voice pulled on the last word, and John straightened up. He roughly grabbed Holmes' elbow before pulling back in the direction of HMS Edward, scowling for the entirety of the journey.

The descent back down to the shore line of Bartholomew's Bay was peaceful, or as peaceful as possible with a very bouncy dog who got overly excited whenever a bird was spotted, and a very grumpy pirate who kept grumbling to himself.

Each time a snide remark was made, John would simply roll his eyes and tug on Holmes' elbow a little bit harder to speed him up. Whenever he did this, Holmes would start walking a lot slower than before, which caused John to grow increasingly angrier with each step.

They'd gotten to the point where Holmes was shuffling his feet by a few centimetres and John was practically pulling him down the hill before he snapped for a second time.

“You are a child!” He scorned, letting go of Holmes and throwing his arms into the air indignantly. Holmes shrugged, while John swore. “You're an actual child, Holmes.”

“And you, as it turns out, are far more accustomed to particular sedatives than I would have thought.” Holmes replied. “Well done you.”

John blinked. Holmes was smirking at him, and there was something in the bright, sparkling eyes that made John want to start heading in the immediate opposite direction.

They were standing at the foot of the land now – the space between a winding cobblestone road and glistening white sand. Transparent blue waves rolled gently to greet them, but then they'd get half way and retreat back into the collection of blue. Stretching out of the beach a few miles along was a natural spit, where HMS Edward could be seen with it's sails rippling gently in the breeze.

John looked longly out across the bay at his beautiful boat, but then his eyes caught sight of a new figure on the horizon. It was drifting gently across the waves so peacefully that if it were a lot smaller it would have perhaps been mistaken for a black swan. However, the sight of the ever-growing closer ship caused the hairs on the back of John's neck to stand on end.

He'd never seen Holmes' ship personally, but he'd heard enough to know it when he saw it. The woodwork was a striking black, and the sails were a rich purple that John had only ever seen the likes of in places of royalty. It was most often complimented with gold, but it looked remarkable against the onyx of the rest of the ship. John felt an overwhelming desire to compliment the designer of that ship. It was rather grand for a pirate's boat.

In comparison to his own, it was small. While HMS Edward was long, elegant and a wonder upon the eyes; the ship which was now lowering down a small dingy into the cool blue sea was stout. It still held beauty, but it looked like it had been squashed.

“... Is that?” He asked, full of trepidation as a man began rowing the dingy closer to the shore. He wasn't forgetting Holmes' remark about the sedative.

“Yes.” Holmes breathed. He took a step forward and stood next to John, watching him thoughtfully.

Then, John began to sweat. He was a rather tolerant man when it came to heat, but right now he wanted to strip and take to the water. He was burning up completely under his dress jacket.

“Holmes, what did you do to me?” His throat felt constricted. He was struggling for air as one knee landed firmly on the ground beneath him. Holmes mirrored him, although he was clearly without the suffocation element.

“Shh...” He cooed, as John grappled at his own throat. “You'll cause your heart rate to increase and then you will die. Calm down, and you should fall asleep.”

John was on all fours now, gasping for air as he willed his body to accept the oxygen he was trying to give it.

“If I... If I sleep then you shall escape.” He choked, looking up at Holmes as the man stood up.

“Yep.” Holmes grinned down at him. “Great plan, don't you think? I'm rather pleased with it myself, I must say.”

Holmes watched on as John threw the dress jacket off from around his shoulders, loosening all the buttons about his person desperate for a way to cool off. “If you don't relax you'll die. I may have poisoned you but it was simply a means for my escape. I don't want to see you come to any particular harm. Breathe, Captain.”

John had now rid himself of his shirt entirely and was coughing violently. He could feel the sun scorching his already tanned back, and rolled over. The heat immediately set to work on his front as he started to shudder. Some small part of his brain decided to listen to what Holmes was saying however, and he forced himself to be calm.

_You're not dying._ He thought to himself sternly _. You're not dying, just breathe. Just breathe and sleep. Holmes will escape but you don't want a wretch like that on your ship anyway. Breathe._

He hadn't realised that he'd shut his eyes, but when he opened them he found a pair of mischievous turquoise eyes boring into his own. John noticed how surprisingly close they were to that of the colouring of the sea surrounding them. He gulped, and the eyes crinkled as a result of the man's grin.

Suddenly, sleep didn't seem like such a bad option and he found himself slowly drifting away into the depths of unconsciousness.

 

\--

 

The small dingy was carried towards the beach by the weak fetch, and Holmes made a point of turning around so that the man who had come to get him could see his bound wrists. He heard a splash, and turned around to see Dimmock treading through to water up the beach towards them. Gladstone was sitting mere inches away from John's head, and was watching the scene in front of him with apparent interest.

"Thought you'd be able to get out of that," the man laughed as he pulled out a knife and began sawing away at the blood soaked rope.

"My hand isn't in best form, Dimmock. Perhaps you can tell from the red liquid. It's called blood and it's what you've got inside your body." Holmes breathed a sigh of relief as his arms came apart. His shoulders were aching. He rolled them round in circles, pleased to at last have movement. Holmes was a man who didn't take to not being control very well.

"I know what blood is, Captain. I ain't stupid." Dimmock scoffed. Holmes smirked.

"Of course you're not. Load him onto the dingy. I expect the dog will follow naturally."

Dimmock gave Holmes a curious glance before pulling the sleeping captain off of the ground and over his shoulder. He then strode back into the shallows and placed him into the boat. Sure enough, Gladstone waded out with them, but required help from Dimmock to get into the dingy himself. Holmes also followed, but not before retrieving John's clothes.

The cool waves lapped at his trousers, causing them to cling to his legs. It was a lovely feeling against the heat of the sun. Holmes bent over and placed his bitten hand in the water to allow the salt water to clean it. Gently, he rubbed the cuts using his thumb and all the dried blood fell away. It probably wasn't a wise thing to do, given that although the sea was calm there were still dangerous predators lurking about, but it felt wonderful against his skin.

He cast a glance at the dog who had ravished his hand. Gladstone had his paws rested on the side of the small wooden dingy and his tail was wagging furiously as he watch Holmes rid himself of the blood. Holmes watched in amusement as the dog leapt over the side and straight into the water, paddling around him in circles.

“You're a strange dog.” He remarked, smiling as Gladstone went shallow enough for him to stand. He then started lapping up the water, and Holmes quickly strode towards him. “Don't do that! You'll throw up everywhere.”

He scooped the brown furred dog up into his arms and carried him back over the boat. “Now we don't drink sea water, do we? No, we don't. It's not good for you.” Gladstone practically flew out of his arms and back into the boat. Holmes' head snapped up as he realised Dimmock was laughing at him. “What?” He asked, knowing very well what Dimmock was finding so amusing.

Dimmock merely shook his head still chuckling to himself and causing Holmes to scowl as he clambered into the dingy. John was sprawled across one of the planks of wood that acted as a bench, snoring loudly. Gladstone had curled up into a ball in the shadow created by John's sleeping form.

“Are all of Captain Watson's men onboard?” Holmes asked, glancing at Dimmock as he began rowing the boat towards the larger ship.

“Yep. They're none too happy either, to tell you the truth. If it's not your intentions to kill Watson by your own hand, I'm sure his men will do it for you.”

Holmes brought his leg to rest upon the bench next to John's head. He himself was sitting on the bench opposite, and used his leg as a resting post for his elbow with his head perched on his hand. He watched the sleeping captain closely, wondering what he could have done to possibly warrant such a distaste amongst his men.

 

\--

 

John buried his face deeper into the crook of his arm, which despite being strong, muscular and hard, made a surprisingly comfortable pillow. He would never tire of the moments before waking up while at sea. The gentle rocking, the overall calmness that surrounded the boat as the other men slept quietly was the only time he had to himself, and he loved it.

Occasionally a gull could be heard, and John would be sent deeper into his overall tranquility of being asleep at sea.

“Oi! He's awake!”

John jumped as the shout sliced at his eardrums; he suddenly sat up. Using his arms as support for his body he blinked wearily, trying to take in his dark surroundings.

“Don't just sit there. Make him sit up.” The man who had shouted said, and John found himself being hoisted into the air. He had a mind numbing headache that caused his vision to blur as he was pulled from the floor a little too harshly. He closed his eyes tightly, willing them to be working again properly.

The man who was speaking was a man called Biggs. He didn't hold a very high rank, but his large build and general knack for bullying caused the other sailors to fall to their knees with any given command he made. John had never succumb to Biggs' bullying techniques – he was the captain, after all – but something about his situation made him wish he'd obeyed just a few times in the past.

Rather slowly, John realised that the men who had picked him up were still supporting him. He didn't mind that so much, in fact he was quite thankful for it. What he did care about however, was the fact that they were pinning him against the wall. He attempted to wriggle free, but the men were too strong for his sleepy body to contend with.

“Whats...” He spoke groggily, cursing Holmes mentally as he remembered the situation on the beach. Slowly, he began to recall the what had happened once he'd set foot on Pharaoh.

Holmes had tricked him, that was a given. But what was currently unfolding in front of him was new, and he couldn't piece together how he'd gotten there. Where was he? Was he in his own ship, back on HMS Edward? Or was he on Holmes'? Furthermore, what was he doing surrounded by the dregs of his company, rather than the likes of Stamford?

As realisation filled him, a groan escaped his lips.

His eyes adjusted, and he found himself surrounded by his rather malicious looking crew. Yellow teeth were glinting at him against the flicker of a lamp, and several of the men had taken there proper uniform off. Biggs was standing dead on the centre, looking down on John as though he were the next meal for a hungry shark.

"Don't suppose we can come to some sort of an agreement?" John attempted, smiling meekly.

Behind the hoard of men was a row of thick, black, wrought iron bars and John quickly came to the conclusion that they were most definitely on Holmes's ship.

"Nice try." Biggs cracked his knuckles and bore his jagged teeth. The sight of them made John cringe.

“Maybe if you told me what was going on I'd be able to help?”

The men laughed, almost in unison, and Biggs ordered for the two men holding John up to drop him. He managed to gain his footing and remain standing, however.

“What do you think's going on, Captain? HMS precious Edward was ramsacked by pirates. Pirates who you were supposed to be arresting.” Biggs was sneering at him, attempting to belittle him, and John didn't appreciate it one bit.

“Now look here-” he started, raising a finger. But before he could continue Biggs heavily callused hand made contact with John's stomach.

John was a man born to be a fighter. When he was a child, he was always getting into fights with the other children. Not because he particularly wanted to fight, but more often than not it was down to him defending someone else. John could hold his own, but people often didn't know it because of his size. Biggs, as it turned out, had made precisely that miscalculation.

The force of the punch caused John to take a couple of steps backwards, clutching at his stomach with his left arm and doubling over. The other men were shouting, egging Biggs on.

Biggs bent over so that his face was just a bit higher than John's. John could feel the man's dirty breath rippling through his hair, and clenched his teeth.

“Did that hurt the big Captain?” Biggs mocked. John didn't reply, so Biggs straightened up to his full height to receive a cheer from the men, grinning stupidly at his apparent defeat of the captured captain. John saw his opportunity.

He quickly unfurled himself and his right fist made firm contact with Biggs's jawbone. He then quickly darted around Biggs and pushed the cell door open.

There were yells of horror as John slammed it shut; hands sticking out and crying out to let them out too. John was laughing heartily as he propped a heavy barrel against the door and tore off a piece of material from one of the more dopier men's arms. He tied it around one of the bars that made up the door, and stretched it across and tied it around another bar, just out of the men's reach. They were trapped. John was still chuckling as he addressed the men.

“You're fools. The door was open? Tell me, how long were you sitting in there?” He leant up against on of the beams and grinned at the all the angry people in front of him, folding his arms as he smirked.

He longed to hear the story of how much they loathed him, and how they allowed themselves to be captured by a meagre group of pirates, but he knew that the cloth wouldn't prevent them from getting out for long. What was Holmes playing at? So he quickly darted off in search of a way off the ship.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... What do you think? Hope you're enjoying this :)
> 
> \- indigospacehopper


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm really sorry that this has taken so long. Don't attempt to write when you're busy as hell at school. So yeah. Sorry. I hope that this makes up for it.

The interior of the ship was a decided maze. Long corridors ran perpendicular to one another. Every now and again John would come to realise that several of the corridors sliced through rooms and divided them into triangles. He eventually came to conclusion that the architect of the ship was not of a sound mentality. It was a bizarre design to say the least.

The ship was eerily quiet. Almost too quiet, especially as it was populated by pirates. Though John reckoned he'd rather deal with Holmes's crew than his own at this moment, as they seemed somewhat pissed off. 

The walls were made of an obscure variation of wood, all slitting into one another to form a surprisingly homey atmosphere. The floorboards were pristine clean; the dark oak reflected the amber of the oil lamp flames as they danced on the wick and illuminated the passageways. If it weren't for the casual sway created by the ocean, John would have believed that he were in a stately home.

He ran his hand over a knot in the wood as he walked. His footsteps didn't betray his whereabouts, owing to the sturdiness of the planks he was standing on. Nevertheless, he still trod cautiously, just to be certain. 

John's ears pricked up at the sound of a grunt. Instinct told him to run, but a life long experience of sharing small ships with other people told him that it was nothing more than a sleep-heavy mutter. As if to clarify this, a moment later a voice spoke from behind one of the walls.

"Bloody hell. If 'e grunts one more time 'e's goin' over board. I don't care if he's sleepin', it's bloody annoying."

John grinned at the comment, and while a cluster of agreements filed through to the passageway he was standing in, he gave a hurried walk towards another room further along the long expanse of corridor. The general quietness of the ship, and the impression he'd gotten from the clatter of conversation coming from the room told him quite plainly that it was night time. Night time, with twenty or so seething simpletons desperate for an escape, after being locked up and being tricked by their pathetic captain didn't bear good news for anyone. John pitied Holmes's crew for when they came to deal with his own. At this rate, they'd all be fighting for his head.

He continued further along, and soon enough the groaning dispersed until nothing could be heard except the gentle creaks that ran along the ship. John sighed and lent up against wall, trying to take in his situation.

They were undoubtedly far out at sea by now, and given the large expanse of water that was the sea they wouldn't be returning to land anytime soon. John wagered that his best option was to find a suitable hiding place, and then raid the food stores when it was safe to do so. Hiding until they reached land was his best option; he didn't particularly fancy jumping over board.

He was just about to continue his exploration, when the silence of the ship was gently torn away, and John found himself listening to the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard in his life.

The mourning of past regrets softly filed through the corridor, portrayed elegantly in the form of music. The flames on the oil lamps swayed with the sound, changing from their startling dance to a melodic waltz upon the wick. But then, the course of the music changed and John found himself being transported to a new world. The vibrance of exotic dances and textures filled his mind, the gently rush of the ocean ran passed his ears as he danced with some unknown (but apparently beautiful) figure on the sandy shore. John had never heard anything like it before. It was transporting.

“No?” The question cut through the notes and the music seised. “Okay. I agree. The note was completely off.”

John gawped as he realised that it was Holmes talking. Trust his luck to navigate him to the part of the ship where the capricious captain was residing in. He groaned silently, frantically turning his head for a new place to adventure into. He didn't have time to think for long, however. As a moment later the click of the door handle could be heard and the door swung open. John flattened himself against the wall, and listened intently, praying that Holmes shouldn't stray along his path.

“Come on, you.” Holmes called back into the room, and John was stunned to see Gladstone trotting merrily out, tail wagging as he walked. It was as though Gladstone and Holmes had been companions for eternity. The idea made John feel nauseous. Holmes was supporting a courting candle above his head as he wriggled around in the narrow corridor, attempting to get into a good enough position to shut the door behind him as well as avoiding stepping on Gladstone. John noted how Holmes was wearing pretty much the same clothes as he'd been wearing in Pharaoh, all except the hat which was now missing. Instead, John was able to get a look at the thick mop of ebony curls that adorned Holmes's head. His face was cast into shadows by the temperamental light, and now that his face wasn't darkened owing to the presence of the hat, John was astounded by the alarmingly sharp cheekbones. 

The door shut as Holmes and Gladstone worked their way along to the opposite side of the labyrinthine ship. John sighed a sigh of relief as the footsteps dispersed, and quietly turned the handle on the door of which Holmes had just exited through.

Through his journey across the ship, John had become fairly certain that the ship was a tidy spectacle. Now he was standing in Holmes's quarters however, he wasn't quite sure.

A large wooded desk stood parallel to the door, overlooking (what appeared to be) a large bay window concealed by two thick, green curtains. Upon the desk lay piles of parchment; deep plum quills stood sharply in abundance in a small china pot; ink holders were dotted in between the array of disorder, some empty, others too full. John squirmed as he noted that one of the quills had been placed in the eye socket of what was apparently a human skull. 

The other side of the wall stood a large four poster bed, where bees had been delicately carved into the oaken woodwork. They wound around the beams at the top, and John trusted that they continued around the whole of it. The sheets on the bed weren't made, and spilled out onto the floor. Quilts and blankets were twisted and interwoven into one another, with the pillows dotted around in the oddest of places that didn't look comfortable at all, but definitely well-used and slept in. Apparently Holmes was a fidgeter. More than this however was the opposite wall, of which the wallpaper was barely visible owing to the sheets of parchment and string covering it. 

John's feet carefully took him to the wall (treading carefully in case of disturbing the untidiness of the floor), and through the practically non-existent light of the room, he squinted in order to read the scrawl and study the pictures adjoined by the slithers of thread.

There were crude sketches of people. From businessmen with finely trimmed beards, to haggard looking men who appeared to have taken part in one too many fights. John traced the connections with this forefinger and thumb, leading him to news articles and random scraps of maps. He spotted his own face among the many, and was just about to see where the thread lead to, when the door clicked open once again to reveal Holmes standing in the doorway.

Instinctively, John grabbed the closest thing to him. Previously unseen, his hand was now tightly clasped around the neck of a violin which he was holding above his head, ready the strike. Holmes blinked as he drank in John's startled figure.

“Nice of you to drop by.” He said, stepping inside the messy room and kicking the door shut with his boot. In his hands he held a plate of cheese with a thick loaf of bread. The other supported a tankard – of which the liquid was unknown. He strode across the room, quite unfazed by the fact that John was aiming to attack him, and set the plate and tankard down in what little space there was on the table. “Could you put my violin down though please? I'm quite fond of it.”

Holmes turned to face John, his arms were folded about his chest and he tapped his foot lightly against the floor as though he were growing impatient. 

“Where's Gladstone?” John asked, still holding the violin above his head.

“Your dog?” Holmes quizzed. “His name is Gladstone? I thought it was but I couldn't quite remember, things got a bit difficult after you first mentioned it, didn't they?” He teased. John snarled. “Oh, and he answers to 'Dog', 'Mutt', and 'Stupid Idiot Hound', in case you were wondering.” 

“I wasn't wondering.” John raised the violin a little bit higher as Holmes shifted on his feet. “Where is he?” 

Holmes sighed before pulling out the chair from under his desk and sitting on it. His gangly legs sprawled out as his slouched, reaching towards the desk from his wedge of cheese. He took a bite and pulled a face, chewing it with caution as if it were something vile, like a slug. 

“He's on the deck chasing some gulls, I believe.” Holmes told him. John couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief. One of Gladstone's favourite things to do was chase and bark at gulls. At least he was being looked after. 

Holmes decided he'd had enough of his food, and reached for his tankard. He took a swig, with his eyes still fixated on John. Swallowing deeply, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve before crying: “Will you please put down my violin? It's a long while until we're next on land and I don't much fancy you breaking it. My men will run riot if I don't have something to distract me every now and again.”

John glanced quickly upwards at the violin, and then back towards the pleading Holmes. “Why did you bring my aboard your ship, pirate?” He asked, not ready to give him back the violin. Holmes cocked his head.

“What should I have done? Left you on Pharaoh where you'd have been killed, if not by your horrible crew then the men who sent you to kidnap me in the first place? My dear Watson, I am not so cruel a man.” Holmes placed his hand above the position where his heart was and looked solemnly back towards John. But the expression turned into an outrageous smirk, and John suddenly came to feel horribly trapped, again.

“But I suppose... I could have left you. It would be much easier on my part, for one thing. Though I'm afraid that you captivated my attention. A man, stronger than anything yet bullied by his crew? A doctor, respected by many, trusted by few. Honestly, my friend, it's poetry! And now what, I heard that you'd been sent to the likes of Pharaoh to kidnap me and take me back to England, all while I was on the hunt for supplies and apothecary equipment? It was too much, I'm afraid. Now tell me,” Holmes leant forward, placing his hands on his knees so that his elbows stuck out behind him, “did your orders come directly from Magnussen, or was a man called Mycroft involved too?”

John tilted his head. “Why should I tell you? You haven't exactly been a kind host. My men are hungry, and yearning for escape-”

“- Your men want to kill you.” Holmes interjected, falling back into his slouch and picking at his nails. John ignored him.

“ - What's more, you're still demanding answers from me even after I distinctly told you that I would only tell you what you wanted to know when we were back on my ship. I fail to see how 'The Bumblebee' is my ship.” He snorted the name of the ship, as though mocking it.

To John, the fact the Holmes has dubbed his ship 'Bumblebee' was a source of great amusement. It certainly didn't look like a bee, and John failed to make the connection between the honey-maker and the sea. Holmes on the other hand raised his eyebrows at the mention of his ship.

“Do you have a problem with it's name?” He asked, looking up from his nails.

“It doesn't look much like a bee.” John shrugged, subconsciously lowering the violin.

“And you don't look much like a Captain, yet it's still your title.” 

John frowned. Half of him wanted to commend the man on his immediate comeback, while the rest wanted to throttle him. He stared at Holmes in astonishment. How could one man be so astonishingly rude? What's more, why on Earth was he allowing himself to be belittled by him?

Silently, he weighed his options. There was a number of ways his predicament could turn, and none of them were particularly favourable. He lowered the violin so that it was resting limply by his hip.

“Information? That's all you wanted?” He asked. Holmes nodded sharply. John sighed. “Do you mind if I sit? My men were none too pleased to see me when I woke up, and to tell you the truth whatever you put in my bloodstream isn't doing my body much good. Do you have a drink? I'm parched.”

Holmes nodded again and handed him the tankard, which John soon found to be containing a potent red wine. He accepted it as he passed the sitting captain and sat down on the end of the bed. Taking a deep gulp, he felt relieved to at last have something in his system. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back. As he opened them again, he found Holmes watching him with interest.

“You were a hostile force not two moments ago.” He said, more to himself than to John. John couldn't help but notice that Holmes's voice seemed more relaxed now, as though whatever John had done caused the harshness to ebb away. 

“Yes.” John agreed. The bed was ridiculously comfortable, and despite waking up only an hour or so ago he was desperately tired again. He yawned, and blinked heavily.

“Information, John.” Holmes said exasperatedly.

“Watson.” John corrected him. Holmes shrugged.

“Call me Sherlock in return if it makes you feel easier about my calling you John. I don't care for names particularly.” 'Sherlock' waved his hand in the air impatiently. John nodded.

“Alright then, Sherlock,” he pulled on Sherlock's name with his tongue, trying to get used to it, “I was sent to get you by Magnussen. I don't know the reason, nor do I care. I've never heard of 'Mycroft', either.” He told him simply. Sherlock frowned and stood up, striding quickly over to the wall covered in pictures and thread.

He jabbed his finger harshly against the picture of John's face, and placed his hand on his hip as he scoured the wall. Behind him, John took another swig of the wine.

“This doesn't make sense. Magnussen want's me, and yet he sent a doctor. Mycroft had a role in this too then, obviously, otherwise he would have sent someone more competent...” John stifled a yawn as Sherlock continued rambling. “Why would Magnussen want me? Of all people?”

John shrugged. “Dunno. Have you committed any pirate-like crimes lately?” He asked jokingly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. To John's great surprise, he was started to feel at ease in Sherlock's presence. 

“You really do know nothing, do you?” Sherlock turned around and gazed imploringly at John. “I'm not your typical pirate. I don't go searching for treasure, nor do I pillage villages. Nothing could bore me more. We, I, we help people. Or we do our best to. We take down rogue governments, and sort people out as best we can. In truth, I only care for the adventure, the rush, the thrill of the chase. But as far as I'm aware I haven't done anything to warrant a particular distaste among the English government.” 

Sherlock stopped talking, and quickly checked to see that John was still listening. However, the unmade bed had proven too much for John, and was slowly allowing the tankard to tip as he breathed heavily through his nose, fast asleep. Sherlock rolled his eyes, before retrieving the tankard and pushing John lightly onto his back. He then clambered onto the bed himself, grabbed John under the armpits and hoisted him further on the bed. He grabbed a pillow and propped it under John's head, before picking up the quilt and blankets and draping them over him. 

He got up and shook his head, John was sound asleep, and this time without the help of drugs. He picked up his violin and slipped from the room, allowing John to sleep in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, Gladstone isn't the bulldog that he's portrayed as in the original ACD stories, but rather a Portuguese water dog. 
> 
> I'm hoping to update this every Wednesday day evening, if you're interested in reading more, of course.
> 
> Also, any comments you have are completely welcome. They really help me out. 
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


End file.
